Obscurity
by LoveChilde
Summary: Two shady characters meet in a shady pub. Surprise crossover. Slash.


(A/N: This is a birthday fic I wrote for Joannie Milligan, a few months late (or early). She asked for it, now she's got it. None of them belong to me- specific disclaimers at the end, 'cause they're spoilerish. Rated R for slash, alcohol and moodiness.)  
  
Obscurity  
  
"I knew you were there all along." The young man said, "I was looking for you."  
  
His companion said nothing for a long time.  
  
**** Their eyes met across the dirty counter of an East London pub. It was July, 1976, and unseasonably warm. The pub was dark, nearly empty, and the music suited the mood- oppressive and heavy, the bass rumbling through the floor.  
  
To look at, they might've been the same age, but up close the difference was noticeable. Not a physical difference, no, but their attitudes were as different as night and day. One carried his moodiness like a shield, sat back in a corner with only a pair of glittering eyes showing under a curtain of dark hair; the other, ironically, almost radiated liveliness, a sense of living dangerously but well keeping people at a respectful distance. From across the room, black eyes met blue.  
  
Silently, the blue eyes got closer. They were accompanied by a compact, wiry body, clad in blue jeans that looked painted on and a sleeveless leather vest, some chain-link jewelry, and hair bleached nearly silver, fashionably spiked. The man sat across from the other, and offered a toast.  
  
Blue eyes scanned his new table-mate. Young- eighteen at a guess, not much more, with dark eyes that had seen too much. Lines of bitterness in a sallow face, framed with long, dirty-looking hair. A body that was obviously taller than his was obscured by a large coat, worn even in this hot weather. He had a glass of the house specialty- tasted like cat piss, but gave a quick, strong buzz.  
  
"So," He said after a while, "To what shall we drink?" A sneer answered.  
  
"To freedom." In the four weeks since graduation, he hadn't been home once, and hadn't missed it. They raised his glasses.  
  
"To freedom." It was his first time back in over thirty years, and he hadn't missed it.  
  
Hey sat in silence for a while, until the blond man stood up and stretched. "Let's take a walk." With no argument, the dark haired one rose and joined him, moving like a shadow. Something unspoken passed between them, an agreement to share much, and little, for a short time at least.  
  
" I don't usually do this." The younger man- almost a boy, really, broke that agreement almost instantly, and a glacial, cynical look focused on him. Had the time at the pub been wasted?  
  
"Do what?" he asked, still, "Follow strange men around?"  
  
"Yeah." The boy tried to sound casual, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice that only very sharp ears could pick up.  
  
"I feel so special." Even a deaf man would've noticed the sarcasm.  
  
They walked in silence after that, and people looked away when they passed. In the crowded London streets, they didn't once have to dodge or move aside for anybody. Slowly, the young man started feeling he may have bitten off more than he could chew, but he plowed on in the older man's wake, ignoring any feelings. Feelings- of any sort- were not allowed that night. That was his purpose. He'd lost track of the streets, concentrating on the other's back to the exclusion of all other senses, and walked right into him when he stopped.  
  
"Up here." The blond indicated a dark staircase leading into an old building. The boy had no idea where they were. Silently, they went up the stairs. The boy was not surprised at the cheep, tacky décor, the boarded up windows, or the fact that the door had been unlocked. If he felt any shock or fear when he stumbled over the corpse of a scantily dressed woman, he didn't show it. If he noticed the two bite-marks on her neck, he filed that information away and didn't comment. At least the bed was clean. "Strip," came the order.  
  
Moving in unconscious tandem, the two men slowly removed their clothes, leaving them in two piles on the floor on each side of the bed. Again, blue eyes met black, and both pairs scanned the other.  
  
Black eyes traveled slowly over pale, smooth skin. The man saw the sun less than he did, clearly, and it made sense. He wondered how cold he would be.  
  
Blue eyes gave a cursory inspection, as if used to nudity, but they focused on one unusual element. "Nice tat."  
  
A cold, bitter smile. "Thank you." One finger, tipped with black nailpolish, reached out to trace the drawing, and the boy flinched back, pulling his hand away sharply. The man raised his hands in silent apology. Then he lowered them and pushed the boy down to the bed lightly, indicating he should lie on his back. Turning away, he started looking for something in a box for of things that tinkled like metal and glass. With a muttered curse, he straightened, shaking his head.  
  
"Bloody bint what owned this place had no taste. This'll have to do." He waved a pair of.The boy stared.  
  
"They are orange."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And fuzzy."  
  
"I think the term is 'furry', pet. And they're going on you in a mo', just wait." With slow, graceful movements, trailing one hand tantalizingly up the boy's chest and arm, he fastened the furry orange handcuffs on the boy's wrists and through the bars of the headboard, leaving them tied above his head. "Better." Both his hands, startlingly cold, moved over the boy's bare skin, feather-light touches that had him almost instantly aroused. The other looked down and smirked. "Eager, are we? Too bad." His hands slowed, and when his mouth joined them it was even slower.  
  
"If you think.You'll make me ask you." The boy gasped after maybe fifteen minutes of torturous pleasure, "You're wrong."  
  
"We'll see." The older man's cool tongue moved lower, trailing fire down his legs and thighs, "You're young, and I have all the time in the world." The boy writhed and shuddered when a particularly sensitive spot was touched, and the man focused all his attention on it, drawing away at the last second and eliciting a moan of displeasure.  
  
"I've.caused permanent damage to people.over less than this." The boy breathed, arching back. The man looked down at him, amused.  
  
"I'm not people." And he continued, doing things the boy had never dreamed of, pulling him to the edge and leaving him teetering on it without release time after time. At last the boy could bear no more.  
  
"Please." There was a note of victory even in the defeated plea, satisfied with himself for holding out for so long, "Stop."  
  
"Stop?" Came the smug reply, "Don't you mean 'go on'?" The older man breathed in deeply, right above the boy's head. "You smell like magic, ducks."  
  
Thin lips twisted into a bitter, wry smirk again. "I am magic."  
  
"You would be." The man shrugged and continued, finally fulfilling the boy's wishes and more. A short burst of pain faded into pleasure, repeated and dizzying pleasure, and the boy gave up on their agreement of silence, crying out his ecstasy. The older man came silently, his clutching fingers leaving bruises on pale skin.  
  
Later, a while later, the boy spoke again.  
  
"I knew you were there all along." He said, "I was looking for you."  
  
His companion was silent for a long time. Finally he spoke. "So?"  
  
"I also know what you are," The boy said breathlessly, as if keeping the information inside was a difficult task.  
  
"What am I, then?" The man drawled, looking quite unconcerned.  
  
"You're a vampire." The boy congratulated himself on the steadiness of his voice, but knew that the monster could smell his nervousness.  
  
"What if I am?" The man- no, the vampire, it was clear he wasn't even trying to deny it- asked, looking sated and bored at the same time.  
  
"You could kill me." The boy said defiantly, "I've discovered your secret."  
  
"Was never a secret, as far as I'm concerned. Anybody asks, I tell 'em straight- I'm a vampire, and proud of it. And you-" He tapped the boy's largish, hooked nose, "Are a good enough fuck that I'd rather keep you alive for a while. Maybe."  
  
"What would the point be then?" The boy asked, then flushed, realizing that the afterglow and whatever he'd had to drink were making him far more talkative than he should've been.  
  
"That's you've spent the night with the most dangerous vampire this side of the Atlantic, and lived to tell the tale. That was the point, wasn't it? The test?"  
  
The boy was stunned into momentary silence, then started struggling fiercely against his bonds, confusion overtaken by anger. "You knew? You knew all about it? How?" He asked furiously. A chill hand grasped his left arm, and traced the tattoo- the skull with the serpent tongue. The boy couldn't move.  
  
"Wasn't the first time, pet. They always seem to think that fighting me's their best chance. You're the first who's tried-" he gestured around them, "this. That's why I like you. Why I'll let you go."  
  
"But.But." Victory tasted like ashes in the boy's mouth. He's won, maybe, but not quite the way he'd expected.  
  
"Shhh." The vampire shook his head, unlocking the cuffs as he spoke. "You've passed the test, by any means necessary. Isn't that the motto of your.house? Sleep now." And without knowing why, either by the vampire's power, or out of simple exhaustion, the boy slept.  
  
In the morning, all he found of the vampire was the furry handcuffs, his scent on the pillow and a note, breaking the very last rule- that of anonymity.  
  
You did good, pet. Go back and tell them whatever you want. And you can call me Spike.  
  
Severus Snape sighed, charmed himself clean, and went outside to face the day, knowing his first test of initiation into the Inner Circle was over.  
  
(Me again. So Snape belongs to J. K. Rowling, who's finally deigned to maybe finish the 5th book, Spike belongs to Joss Whedon, who I'll go on admiring no matter how bad the past season's been. London belongs to the world. The dead hooker is with God now (maybe). )  
  
HAPPY B-DAY, J!!! 


End file.
